Child of No One
by LauraHuntORI
Summary: What's in a surname? An exploration of Heath Barkley's identity and true name, inspired by Season 1, Episode 7: Winner Lose All and by Helena's wonderful Palms of Glory fanfiction "What a Difference a Day Makes."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **_"The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names."_

"An illegitimate child is one born to parents who are unmarried at the time of his birth. In the past, such a child was legally known as a _'filius nullius'_ or 'child of no one.'"

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership. The legal opinions expressed in this story are designed for dramatic and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to take the place of the advice of an attorney licensed to practice in your state.

* * *

Snuggling up in bed obediently, Heath asked for his favorite story. "Tell me about Mr. Barkley, Momma."

Leah smiled at her son, and ran a hand gently through his golden hair. "He was the kindest man I ever met, and the gentlest, and the strongest. Even when he was bad hurt, he was very loving, never harsh or mean."

"When I grow up, will I be like him?"

She touched the tip of her index finger to the tip of her son's nose. "You're already like him, sweetheart."

"Is that why I have his name?"

She leaned down to kiss him. "That's why you have his name."

* * *

Don Alfredo Montero had refused to shake his hand.

Heath had wondered what he could possibly have done to offend someone he'd never met, but he wasn't long finding out: "_To keep a line pure is a sacred trust." _

His offense was not anything he'd done, but what he was. And that wasn't something he could change. So he stood silently, watching the blood of the dead bull soak into the ground, until Nick made him walk away.

* * *

"You want to tell me about it, Leah?" Rachel Caulfield asked her friend as they sat drinking 'silver tea.'

"About what?"

"Whatever's bothering you."

Leah sighed and set down her cup. "It's Heath."

"Heath?"

Leah nodded. "I—" she paused, eying her friend. "Don't take this wrong, Rachel, but you don't know what it's like being a mother."

"No, I don't," the older woman agreed. "Can you tell me?"

Leah's left hand came up to run gentle fingers across her lips, before white teeth bit nervously into the lower one. "You have to be tough, sometimes. Cruel even." She licked her lips. "For his own good."

Rachel waited but Leah said nothing further. She wondered if she should leave it alone, but her friend seemed so troubled. "And you had to be tough on Heath?"

Leah nodded. "I whipped him this morning."

Rachel considered. She picked up a biscuit and took a bite while she considered what to reply. "It's not the first time you've had to," she pointed out.

"No," her friend agreed, "but it's the first time…" Her words trailed off, and she ran her tongue along the back of her teeth.

"What?" Rachel prompted.

"It's the first time I regretted it."

* * *

Rachel found Hannah at her laundry tub.

"How Miss Leah doing now?" Competent hands rubbed a soapy garment against the washboard to loosen the dirt.

"She's fine, Hannah," her mistress answered distractedly. "Have you seen Heath?"

"Sho did. Washed his lil' mouth out with soap for him, too."

Rachel blinked. "Why?"

Hannah looked away before muttering darkly, "Said something no boy should say about his momma, 'specially when she a good woman like Miss Leah."

* * *

Rachel ran Heath to earth skipping stones across the creek. He threw and his stone hopped once, twice, three times, then went under. He skipped a second, two hops. A third hopped only once.

The fourth stone he just threw down into the water. A fifth, harder. A sixth.

Heath stooped to pick something up, and Rachel saw him raise a big rock high over his head. He smashed it down into the creek, and a smile lit the five-year-old face for a moment at the big splash it made.

Then he burst into tears.

Rachel hadn't known what she was going to say to him until she heard the sound of her voice ringing out sternly, "Are you a little baby then, Heath, that runs away to cry? Or are you a big boy, who can take his licks and learn from them?"

Heath whirled, wide-eyed with alarm, and wiped his tears with grubby hands. "I'm a big boy," the treble voice piped hastily.

"I thought you were," she reassured him. She sat down on the creek bank and waited for him to sit next to her. She watched the water purling in the stream, its gurgle soothing in her ears.

Heath flung himself down next to her. "Ow!" He shot her a sheepish look and sniffed. He wiped his eyes again furtively. He wished he'd sat down more carefully. He licked his lips and winced at the acrid taste of soap that was still in his mouth, though he'd rinsed it out with creek water as best he could. But that wasn't the worst. He bend his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The worst was inside. _He was bad. Momma said so!_

A bullfrog croaked nearby. Birds chirped. The stream bubbled merrily around the rock he'd thrown into it.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" Rachel asked quietly.

Heath bit his lip. _He had told Hannah, and Hannah had been as mad as Momma. If he told Aunt Rachel, there wouldn't be anyone who wasn't mad at him! _He kept quiet and looked at the stream.

Aunt Rachel didn't say anything either.

Heath slid a cautious glance over to see if she was angry he hadn't replied. She was looking at the creek. Maybe it was safe. "Momma sent me into town with the pies." He whispered. "When I got to the hotel, Aunt Martha came out and said she wanted one."

Rachel waited, then ventured an encouragement. "And?"

"And I went inside the lobby with her so she could pick one." Heath took a breath. "But she didn't want to pay for it. Said Momma should give one to Uncle Matt for free." Heath ran a nervous hand through his hair. "And I told her I was supposed to sell them, so if she wasn't going to pay for it, she needed to give it back to me." Heath shook his head angrily. "I'm not even supposed to go in there," he muttered, resting his head against his palms.

"So what happened? Did she give it back to you?" Rachel tried hard to keep her voice gentle, even while thinking, _'Drat the woman, why does she have to plague a little boy so?'_

Heath was clearly worried by the sharp tone, but answered anyway. "No, she didn't, but Uncle Matt came in and said he'd give me the money... and when he brought it, one of the men staying there asked who I was." Heath stopped, as if that were the end of the story.

Rachel didn't think it was. "What did your Uncle Matt say?"

"That I was his sister's b— somethin' I'm not 'lowed to say."

Rachel gasped and Heath looked at her glumly, wondering if she was going to box his ears now. He hadn't _said_ it. He sniffed again, and studied the crown of the cottonwood on the opposite bank of the creek. "I've heard… the word he used… before, but I—well, I didn't know those other men that said it, but this was Uncle Matt, so I asked…. I asked him, 'What's a—_that word_?'… and he said I should ask Momma."

"And did you?"

"Yeah."

"And what did she say?"

"She said that was what I was, but not to ever say it, 'cause it's a bad word." White teeth gnawed at his bottom lip, just as his mother's had earlier.

Rachel's brow furrowed, "That's _all_ she said?"

He nodded.

"Then what happened?"

"Then I said 'If I _am _a … one of those words, I don't see how come I can't say it!' … 'cept I actually said it again." He looked at her sorrowfully, waiting for her to make his condemnation universal. She did not disappoint.

"Oh, Heath!" Rachel's disapproval was implicit in her tone. "You knew better than to say that….Is that why she whipped you?"

"Yeah." He brooded for a moment, then continued, "But I _still _wanted to know what it meant, so I figured I'd just ask Hannah."

"And she soaped your mouth."

"Uh-huh." He spit on the side away from Rachel. It didn't help.

"So what have you learned?"

"Not what—" Abruptly, he changed his mind about what he'd been going to say. He was not interested in taking a third punishment. "Not to say that word," he amended, looking back at the water.

She had hoped to ease his hurt, but he seemed, if anything, even more upset than when she'd first sat down.

"What is it, boy?"

Heath turned to face her, agony and desperation in the limpid blue eyes. "Momma said that bad word is_ what I am._" He pulled at the front of his shirt to emphasize that it was himself he meant, and asked forlornly, "Aunt Rachel, am I something bad?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **_"Traditionally, under common law, an illegitimate child was not a legal child to either of his parents. The law valued family relationships and considered family to be established only by marriage. An illegitimate child had no right to parental support and no right to inherit through either parent. He was effectively on his own." _

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership. The legal opinions expressed in this story are designed for dramatic and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to take the place of the advice of an attorney licensed to practice in your state.

* * *

Heart-broken child and concerned adult were still staring at each other, and the sound of the little boy's question still hung in the air when they heard the dulcet tones of an angel in response. "Of course not, darling." Leah stood near the edge of the trees.

Heath jumped up and ran to her, and his mother sank gracefully to one knee to embrace him. "I'm sorry, Momma," Heath whispered into her shoulder.

"I know, son, I know." She caught Rachel's questioning eye over her son's head and nodded. She would handle it, would explain what she should have explained when he'd first come to her that morning. Tactfully, Rachel slipped away.

Leah lifted her son bodily and carried him to the place near the creek where he'd been sitting with their friend, sank down and settled him in her lap. He snuggled against her gratefully.

"Heath, sometimes a man and woman love each other very much, even though they can't get married."

Heath listened to Momma's slow, steady heartbeat under his ear. "Like you and Mr. Barkley," he guessed.

"Like me and Mr. Barkley… and sometimes such people, even though they aren't married, if they're very, very lucky, they have child."

"Like me?" His voice was contented, now that she was holding him and was no longer angry.

"Like you, sweetheart." Leah kissed her son's bright hair. If only Tom could see his wonderful son, if only… "Well," she continued, "it can make people jealous or angry, because they think you should only have children if you're married, and so they start calling bad names."

"That's mean," he whispered. "We don't call people bad names, do we, Momma?"

"No, son. No, we don't."

She felt him yawn. "I love you, Momma."

"I love you, too, Heath."

* * *

The medic led the woman over to the soldier's bunk. "This is the one I mean."

The women from the orphanage considered the skeletal youth thoughtfully. "It's hard to say what age he might be."

"His enlistment papers say he's nineteen."

The woman removed her glove and reached out a hand to stroke the gaunt cheek. "Nineteen, eh? This cheek has never worn a beard."

The medic nodded and shook the bony shoulder. The boy stirred. "Heath, this lady can help you, can take you to an orphanage and care for you, provided you admit you're underage: that you're still a child."

The blue eyes blinked. "I'm no one's child."

"Heath, they can't take care of you unless you're a child."

"I can take care of myself," he whispered.

* * *

Heath sat motionless on the covered sidewalk in front of the Peabody General Store trying to decide whether to live or to die. Right at the moment, dying seemed a whole heck of a lot easier than stirring his bones off this porch. His bones were all he had left. His buttocks hurt because after seven months in Carterson Prison and a further month of 'taking care of himself' there wasn't hardly enough left of his bottom to sit on.

Maybe he should have let that woman take him to her orphanage. Except he wasn't an orphan.

He wondered if Momma had received his army pay yet. Probably not. They had told him it would likely take several months to come through… if he died now, he wouldn't ever have to move again. He blinked slowly. _I've changed my mind, Pat. I've decided to die. _

Dale Roberts pulled up his horse in front of the Peabody General Store and considered the unkempt figure which leaned haphazardly against a post. It resembled a scarecrow formed from a skeleton, dressed in a ragged and too large union army uniform topped by a blue kepi, out of which peeped a bundle of limp straw. Everything about the scarecrow was filthy, and it stank to high heaven as though it were in sober truth a rotting corpse in the final stages of putrefaction. It was alive though… Dale thought. "Hey!"

The straw topped skull turned towards his voice, and hundred year old eyes, burning vivid blue like the noonday sky, regarded him indifferently, then blinked slowly.

"I'm looking for someone can handle horses."

The blue eyes seemed to stare at something a thousand yards in the distance, then a surprisingly deep voice announced, "Livery's over yonder." A look of loathing passed over the emaciated features of the skull. For two mornings, Heath had mucked out stalls at that stable for the munificent fee of ten cents each day. The third morning he'd been run off with a pitchfork. In the three days since then, he had asked for work at every house and business in town, and had had more doors than he could count slammed in his face. This whole town could go straight to Carterson for all he cared.

Dale was shaking his head. "Not that. I need someone willing to join our outfit. Prob'ly take a few months. We're trailing some cattle up north. Our nighthawk was killed. Need 'nother."

The skeleton made a rattling noise, but didn't answer. Dale turned away, thinking the man must not know of anyone.

"Hey, wait!" It was the deep voice of the scarecrow again. It had risen from the porch and stood like a willow sapling in the wind, wavering gently in the road.

Dale marveled at its ability to remain (more or less) upright. "You think of someone?" the cowman asked.

"Yeah," the deep voice announced. "Me."

The skeleton had neither horse nor gear, so Dale pulled it up onto the back of his own horse. The slight additional weight had no effect on the wiry mustang.

"What's your name?" Dale asked.

"Heath."

Bony arms like birds' wings wrapped themselves around Dale's muscular waist. As they rode swiftly back towards the herd, the sepulchral voice ventured a low inquiry: "What's a nighthawk?"

"Horse wrangler for the nightshift."

When they reached the camp, a hand named Pedro came forward in alarm and attempted to wave the newcomer off. "Hoy no es el Día de Los Muertos! Regresa a su sepultura y descansa!"

Heath had already slid from the horse to the ground. "What's he saying?"

"Never mind him." Dale frowned at the Mexican. "Este es el nuevo remudero," he told the cowhand.

"Él ya está muerto."

Dale ignored this, and took Heath a little ways away. "That's the remuda. Think you can handle it?" Heath stared. At a distance of about thirty yards were dozens of horses. His heart sank. _No, he hadn't a clue. _"You could try me," he offered.

Dale handed him a lariat. "Rope me that bay with the dot star on her forehead. Then move the saddle from my horse here to the bay."

Heath obeyed. He roped the mustang smoothly, transferred the saddle and tightened the cinch.

When Heath signaled he was finished, Dale put his hand on the saddle horn and pulled the saddle down sideways. "Tryin' ta get me killed?" he inquired.

Despair beat at Heath, his aching head, his sore bones, his empty belly. He knew better than that. It was practically the first thing he'd learned about horses!

He bowed his head in defeat, too exhausted to beg for another chance. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'll just…" he started to walk away.

"Hey!"

Heath looked back. "Did I forget to mention we're gonna teach you the job?"

To Heath's surprise, laughter bubbled up. "Yeah, you did. Just like I forgot to check and make sure he wasn't suckin' wind."

A boy ran up to Dale with a bundle in his hands. "This is Bobby, our daylight remudero. He and I are gonna teach you the ropes." Dale motioned to Heath. "Give it to him."

The boy handed the bundle to Heath. It was clothing: shirt, vest, and pants similar to what the others wore.

"Go down to the creek there and wash up," Dale advised him. "Then change into these."

Heath stared down at the clothes. "I don't need charity," he objected.

"There ain't no charity on this drive," a new voice boomed.

They all turned to stare. A huge man, quite similar in feature to Dale, but much larger, had arrived on the scene.

"Boss," Dale explained, "this is the new nighthawk. Name's Heath. Heath, this is our trail boss."

"Sir," Heath acknowledged.

"You can call me 'Boss,'" said the boss. "You heard Dale tell you to get washed up and change clothes?"

"Yeah, but—"

"You 'yeah, but' me, boy, you're gonna be tramping the flats, ya hear? Dale tells you do something, it ain't charity, it's an order, got that?"

Heath nodded.

"Then git."

Heath got.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **_"It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change." _–Charles Darwin

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.

* * *

"Man at the pot!" someone yelled.

McElfresh, despite the lofty position of point man, was a good enough sport about having been caught with the coffee boiler in his hands to pour seconds for four or five of his comrades before calling out, "Heath, take over here, would you?"

"Sure." The outfit's nighthawk rose from the stump where he was devouring a huge helping of beans, bacon, and biscuits drizzled with molasses, and took over the pouring and serving duties willingly.

"Thank you, Heath," Dale said, as the young man refilled his cup. "You know, McElfresh," the ramrod pointed out, "anybody but Heath here would have made you keep pouring."

"That's why it was him I asked to take over," Mac agreed, eliciting snorts of laughter from the rest of the men.

Heath only smiled, happy to have coffee to pour, food to eat, work to do. He was refilling yet another cowboy's cup when the ticking noise of a rattler intruded on the peace of the cowhands' morning meal.

The nighthawk was instantly on the alert, blue eyes rounding, and ears pricked to locate the snake. He was able to trace the sound to its source quickly enough, but to his disappointment, there was no snake. Not anymore. The rattle was attached to Handsome Johnny's belt pouch, and the drover had been rattling it by shaking it with his hand, apparently for a joke.

Heath had noticed that the drovers had a great tendency towards practical jokes, and their favored targets were himself and Bobby. "It's too bad about that," Heath commented, motioning with his head towards the rattle at Johnny's belt. "Rattlesnake makes good eating." He caught Dale's eye. The ramrod was grinning. Heath looked at the other men: some were amused, some clearly disappointed that he hadn't screamed and dropped the coffeepot. Obviously, these men hadn't spent months starving in a Confederate prisoner of war camp.

* * *

"Coosie," Heath began when the men had finished breakfast and left to start the herd moving for the day. "Tell me about the boss… are he and Dale related?"

"What makes you ask?"

"They look just alike."

The cook chuckled. "Good reason for that." He sighed, looking off in the direction the outfit's leaders had taken. "Are they related? Not officially."

Heath's brow rose. "And 'unofficially'?"

"Unofficially, Dale is the boss' natural son.""

_Natural son. _Heath smiled. He liked that.

"It ain't spoke of though, boy," Coosie warned him. "So you best not say anything about it, 'less you want me to tan your hide."

"I won't say anything," Heath promised.

* * *

The job of nighthawk, while admittedly the lowest status position in the outfit, suited Heath's situation admirably. His total lack of possessions, including saddle and even bedroll, might have been a problem had he been a drover, but as a nighthawk none of that mattered.

The saddle he used had belonged to his deceased predecessor. As for sleeping, since his main job was to stay awake all night to guard and care for the remuda, as well as to bring fresh horses to the men on night guard, he was permitted to sleep in the chuck wagon during the day, sprawled luxuriously across the piled bedrolls of his comrades. Of course, he was subject to being awakened pretty nearly anytime anyone wanted anything.

* * *

Heath woke from the hard sleep that can only be achieved in full daylight to the sound of his name: "Heath! Get out here!"

"Coming!" Since he slept fully clothed, it was the work of a moment to tumble out of the chuck wagon to the ground. He hit the ground hard, but on his feet, and was only slightly disoriented. "What is it, Coos—"

As it has this morning, the sound of a rattler broke the stillness. Only this time there _was _a snake.

It was dead.

"Johnny here brung you a present, boy," the cook informed him.

Handsome Johnny flung the snake he'd killed near the herd to the nighthawk.

Heath caught it easily. "Boy Howdy," he grinned, "this's gonna be some fine eating." He turned to the cook. "Borrow a place at your fire, Coosie?"

"Help yourself, boy."

The men watched bemused as the skinny nighthawk butchered and cooked the snake. Johnny had brought the reptile back as a joke, thinking that when Heath was put to it he'd _never _actually eat the thing. Yet, here he was, devouring it with as much (or more) gusto as every other edible that had come his way since he'd joined the outfit.

"Not such a funny joke, is it?" Johnny remarked sourly to Pedro.

"Un esqueleto que come serpientes de cascabel está a salvo de mis bromas pesadas," the Mexican agreed.

Heath had offered some of the meat to anyone who wanted some, but there were few takers. He shrugged philosophically. "More for me."

"Mind if I try it?" It was the boss.

"Help yourself."

The boss squatted down and picked up one of the sticks on which Heath had skewered the meat by the cooking fire. He smiled down at his newest employee as he ate. "It's good," he said. He looked around for his ramrod. "Hey, Dale, you should come try it."

Dale had begged off earlier, but when urged by his father, he hunkered down next to the older man and took up another of the stakes. "Thank you kindly," he said to Heath, then looked at his father before taking a bite. Then he laughed. "It don't taste a _bit_ like chicken!"

Heath, who had been struck breathless by the near proximity and obvious resemblance of father and son, stopped asking himself what it would be like to work with his own father in order to respond in surprise, "Who ever said it did?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **_"__We call this type of mother love teng ai. My son has told me that in men's writing it is composed of two characters. The first means pain; the second means love. That is a mother's love." _― Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, Lisa See

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.

* * *

Darkness had fallen early, but Leah had been fortunate enough to bag a brace of rabbits at least. As the product of a day's hunting it wasn't much, but it was a good deal better than nothing, so she wasn't complaining. As she headed back through the woods towards home she heard—

–a sound.

She froze.

A twig snapped. A leaf rustled.

She was no longer alone. It could not truthfully be said that she was afraid, since she held a loaded shotgun in her hands, but it paid to be cautious so near the mining camp.

The figure of a man stepped into the open between the trees, bold as brass, his slim gray silhouette outlined in moonlight. The dark head motioned toward the dangling animal carcasses. "Can I help you with those?" His voice was deep, weirdly familiar. Did she know him?

Leah frowned in the dimness, trying to place him. As near as she could tell, he wasn't at all disturbed by the mouth of the shotgun she'd pointed in his direction. She thought she should recognize the voice, but didn't. If he thought he would take the rabbits off her though, he was mistaken. "I can handle them," she told the stranger gruffly. Sometimes a stern tone worked as well on men as it did on dogs, and she thought this man's voice sounded young enough that he might be affected.

There was a pause, then the light-limned shadow responded, a ripple of amusement underlying its gravelly tone, "If that's the way you want it, Momma."

* * *

They were strangers.

Heath had been gone for two years. He'd been a slender boy when he'd left, and now… now he was still a boy, but a boy who'd lived as a man, thin as whipcord, and as sharp, and as tough.

He'd been a little wild before, but now… now he frightened her, just a little, because he should be hurt, he should be devastated, from what the newspapers said Carterson's should have destroyed him, but he seemed… not exactly untouched… more invulnerable. Strong and proud. He assured her he was 'fine.'

He'd written, of course, when he'd first joined the army, and Rachel had told Leah she should wire the authorities, let them know he was underage, make him come home. But Leah had thought, he's near grown, and on his own, and if he chooses to fight for his country, why should she stop him?

Charlie Whitehorse had brought the word of Heath's capture. Leah had almost set out to try to go to after him, but Whitehorse had thought the prisoners would be moved, and by the time she'd decided she'd best go anyway, the war was over, and then Heath's letter came that he'd been released and had found a job with an outfit trailing cattle, that he was fine, and she should look out for his army pay.

She should have done something to help him, somehow. Now it was too late. He needed no help, not from her, not from anyone, seemingly.

Or did he?

He had apologized— _apologized!_—for not bringing her any money, but he was flat broke.

He smiled at her when he told her this, but she could see it embarrassed him, that he regretted his inadequacy as though it were a personal failing that he had not returned from a prisoner-of-war camp flush with cash.

"But I didn't want to wait any longer to come see you." His smile made him look like the Heath she remembered. "And boy howdy, Momma, it started to look like if I waited until I had any money, I wouldn't see you again 'til we hit the pearly gates together." A shadow crossed his face at the thought, but he left it without retraction. It was all too true.

"Your army pay got here," she told him soothingly.

"You use it like I wrote you?"

She nodded. "There's some left though."

"Keep it. Who knows when I'll be able to give you any more?" The thought clearly troubled him.

"You should take it, son. I can take of myself."

Heath grinned. "You sound like me."

"No, son, you sound like me."

* * *

Hannah prepared the rabbits for the four of them: Leah and Rachel, Heath and Hannah herself. Heath had written several times, but now he filled in the gaps for them, the strange business of driving wild longhorn cattle to market that his boss thought would be such a moneymaker now the war was over, the open secret of the relationship of the boss father and his ramrod natural son, the wagon train Heath had headed back west with along the southern road, signed on as a hired hand with a man traveling with his wife, their children, and his natural daughter.

"How'd his natural daughter come to be traveling with them?" Leah asked.

Heath shrugged. "Her momma died, and her father was the only the family she had left."

"How did her father's legitimate family treat her?"

Heath sighed. "About like they treated me," he admitted. "Like a servant." Then he smiled. "She was sweet though, kind, grateful to be allowed to be with them at all. I think she really loves them, no matter how they treat her."

"Like Cinderella?" Leah suggested.

Heath licked his lips. "I dunno. Like family. My friend Pat used to say that your family is what gives you your place in this world."

Leah looked skeptical. She hadn't accepted the place the Simmons family had wanted to assign her. But all she said was, "Pat?"

"A fellow soldier. I… I got to know him pretty well at Carterson. An Irishman."

Leah frowned, remembering a charming Irishman she'd known only too well. "You make your own place in life, son."

* * *

She should have seen it coming, with all Heath's talk of 'natural' sons and daughters. But she didn't, because he phrased the request the way he had throughout his childhood.

"Tell me about Mr. Barkley, Momma."

They had retired to her cabin, a different one than he remembered, because the old one had burned down. "But I saved your stick horse," she reassured him, much to his amusement.

As she'd done countless times in his childhood, Leah obligingly conjured his father for him. "Mr. Barkley was a man who trailed sunshine in his wake, and he gave me you, and I wouldn't undo that for anything in the world."

It was his opening. Heath's heart started to pound. "What was his name, Momma?" he asked.

Her golden head turned. "You know his name, sweetheart: Barkley, same as yours."

Her son took his courage in his hands. "No, Momma. His _first _name."

The two years that had passed since their quarrel right before he took that first job and left melted away as though they had never been. "I told you before, I'm not talking about this."

"We have to talk about it." Her son's strange new deep voice was firm.

So was hers: "No."

"Momma, I need to know. Who is he? Where is he from? What does he do for a living?"

Leah was silent, her head shaking just a tiny bit back and forth, a negative shake.

"Is he alive at least?"

"I'm not talking about this," she repeated.

Heath was starting to get angry. "I have a right to know."

"No, you don't," his mother snapped. "You don't have _any _rights where he's concerned."

"He's my father." Heath's eyes were pleading. "That gives me the ri—"

"No!" Leah yelled. "It doesn't give you _anything! _Will you understand? You don't have a father, Heath!"

"But, Momma—"

"Don't 'but, Momma' me. You think you'll be like your friend Dale, or your little Cinderella from the wagon train. But you won't, son."

"Isn't that Mr. Barkley's choice to make?"

Heath saw the slap coming, but he didn't try to move out of the way.

_"He __**made**__ his choice!"_ Leah's palm connected with her son's cheek at the word 'made.' She thought for sure this would silence him. It would have when he was a boy. He was still a boy.

Heath waited a few seconds for the stinging to die down a bit. She _had _to tell him. "If I knew who he was, or where he was, I could work for him, or with him—"

The back of her hand hurt a lot worse than the palm had.

Heath breathed in and out slowly. He was sorry to push her, but he didn't know how else to find out. "He wouldn't have to know… that I was his son."

Leah stared. "Have you no pride?"

"Yes!" A pause. "No." Heath stared back at her. Both his cheeks were red where she'd struck him. "I don't need pride, Momma. I need my father."

Leah looked around the room wildly. Her eyes lit on the razor strap he'd hung on the washstand, now that he'd a little peach fuzz to shave, as Rachel had termed it. "Go get me that strap, boy."

His head turned where she was pointing, saw the wide strip of leather she saw. "No."

One of Leah's eyebrows rose. She walked over and unhooked the strap herself, then returned.

"That's no answer, Momma."

"You'll get no answers from me, Heath. This conversation is over."

As she had earlier, Heath was shaking his head. "Are you really gonna whip me for asking who my daddy is?"

The jarring thud of the strap against his upper arm was the only answer. Pain radiated up through his shoulder, and down to his elbow.

"You can hit me all you want to, Momma," Heath gritted his teeth against the pain of her next stroke as she raised a welt on his other arm, "it won't stop me from needing to know: _who is he?!"_

Heath had closed his eyes, waiting for the next stroke. It didn't come. That was a surprise. He'd figured her to keep on hitting him as long as he kept talking. Well, the blows she'd given him already hurt plenty.

He heard a sob, then the clatter of the strap as it hit the floor.

He opened his eyes. Momma sat sobbing uncontrollably across the table from him. Heath felt tears wetting his own cheeks.

"You hear me good, boy," Leah choked out. "I am not talking about this. Not now. Not ever. Ya hear?"

Heath nodded in defeat. His cheeks and arms stung. "Yes, ma'am, Momma. I hear."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **_He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind. _–Proverbs 11:29, Holy Bible (KJV)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.

* * *

Rachel found him by the sound of his axe. The woodpile served both Rachel's household and Leah's, and was large because it included wood to heat the water for Hannah's laundry business.

It was too cold for Heath to have removed his shirt, but he'd laid aside his jacket to work in only shirt and vest, the warmth of the exercise more than cancelling out the chill in the air. He worked smoothly, catching up a log, splitting it, quartering the halves, then tossing them aside. He had a steady rhythm going, brisk but relaxed, and Rachel thought he could probably hold himself to that pace all day.

The _thunk _as Heath sunk the axe head into the stump sounded different. "Something I can do for you, Aunt Rachel?" He pulled a bandanna out of his back pocket and wiped his face.

"Leah says you're leaving tomorrow."

He nodded.

"She thinks you're off to try to find your father. That true?"

Heath shrugged. "She ask you to try to talk me out of it?"

"No." Rachel looked off into the trees, as though she might find there the right words to reach him. "I suppose you'll just ask around for every Mr. Barkley you can find?"

"Yeah," he admitted.

"What if you can't find him?"

"Then I can't."

"What if he's dead?"

"Then he's dead."

"What if you find him, and he refuses to admit that he's your father?"

"Then he—" His brow creased. "Aunt Rachel, if that happened, I'd have no way of knowing…" From his expression, he knew his quest was probably hopeless, but— "I have to try."

She nodded. "Of course." She turned to start back to the house, then abruptly reversed herself and returned to stand next to him. "What about the others, Heath?"

He was puzzled. "What others?"

"Well, you say you're doing this because you need your father, right?"

He nodded.

"You think if you find him, you'll find your heritage, a family to belong to?"

"That's right."

"Well, what do you think is going to happen to all these Barkleys?"

"Happen to them?" He wasn't following. "Nothing."

Rachel's brown eyes bored into his blue. "You come to a man's home, and you ask if he hasn't fathered a child back in Strawberry. He says no. You leave. But behind you, won't you have left a doubt in the mind of that man's wife? Of his son? Of his daughter? Even if he _isn't _your father, won't you have driven a wedge between that man and his family?" She could see he was imagining it. "You need your father; don't they need theirs? And how many men will you do this to? Five? Ten? A dozen? How many lives will you destroy? A hundred? How many children will you deprive of _their_ fathers, in your probably fruitless search for your own? How many Barkleys are there? And every one of them will hate you, will despise the very sound of your name. Your family _will_ give you your place in this world, Heath: as their destroyer. And your heritage will be their despair."

He was staring at her in horror. "No," he whispered. "It won't be like that."

"Oh, no?" She looked skeptical. "How will it be, Heath? Do you think they'll be _happy_ to see you?"

He was shaking his head. "Please—"

"How do you ask if a man has fathered an illegitimate child without asking if he's been unfaithful?"

_Unfaithful._

_Without family, you are nothing. _

Rachel could see in his eyes that she had convinced him.

Heath swallowed, then worked the axe head back out of the stump and picked up the next log. _Thunk!_

"Heath," Rachel said quietly.

He looked up at her.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Nor yours. Are you still going to look for him?"

The golden head shook.

She smiled briefly. "I'll tell Leah."

The sound of the axe cutting through the next log was the only reply.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:**_"__You don't want him for a reason. You want him because he's your father."_ ― Madeleine L'Engle

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.

* * *

Heath had to leave again in order to forget about it.

"Momma?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll stay if you want me to."

Leah shrugged. "You don't need to. We'll be fine here… I hope you find what you're looking for."

"You could help me find it."

"No, I couldn't. But I love you, son."

He couldn't earn a living in Strawberry anyway. And he didn't really belong there.

"I love you, too, Momma."

There must be somewhere that he _would_ belong.

* * *

Heath had two rules for getting work: one was _ask, _and the other was _say 'yes.'_

* * *

The burden fell on him like a bolt out of the blue.

Heath was in the barn mucking out a stall, using a pitchfork to lift the soiled bedding into his waiting wheelbarrow, patiently scraping the clean bedding to the side and making sure there was no manure or wet bedding hiding underneath. Horses hated a dirty stall.

A treble voice broke the silence with the insouciant query. "Can you wipe my butt?"

Heath whirled in surprise.

One of the dozen Smith children stood a few feet from him. He wore a tiny pair of bib overalls with no shirt underneath, and had hooked one hand in his right suspender in imitation of the usual attitude of the adults in the neighborhood. There was no air of urgency about him; he sounded like someone passing the time of day.

Heath tried to control his consternation. How old was the boy? Two? Three? Idiotically, he found himself questioning the child. "Don't you… wipe your own butt?" Up to now, the young man had not spent much time associating with those who couldn't.

The toddler shook his head. "I don't know how," he admitted. "I'm too little."

Heath's brow furrowed. "Who… usually… wipes it?"

"My mom."

Well, that explained it. She'd gone to town though.

Heath looked towards the house. A few of the youngest children were playing in front of the house. One of the older girls was in the act of feeding one of the babies from a bottle. Another was helping one of her siblings into a new pair of three cornered pants.

"The girls are busy," the little boy explained. "They said to ask you."

Boy howdy, when he'd told Mrs. Smith he was willing to do _anything _if they'd only give him some work_, _he hadn't realized he'd be taken so completely at his word. Well, if that was the job, then that was the job. "Sure," he agreed, and followed the child's lead to the outhouse.

* * *

As a matter of self-defense, Heath figured he'd better learn all about it. No telling what chore he'd be called upon to do next.

Mrs. Smith was undeniably amused by his request, but she was nonetheless perfectly willing to show the young man the ropes.

"A baby can't talk, but there ain't but a few reasons one would be crying: she's hungry, or she's just et and needs to be burped, she's done her business and needs to be changed, you've just changed her and stuck her with the pins or else fastened the diaper too tight. An older child might be teething: he'll need something to chew on."

Heath was a quick learner. So quick in fact, that when he'd finished bathing and changing one of the babies under Mrs. Smith's watchful eye, he picked the child up and kissed it on the cheek as he'd seen its mother do.

Mrs. Smith laughed. "You're catchin' on right quick, Heath."

* * *

Mr. Smith, not to be outdone, taught their young hired hand a lullaby: _"Oh, there's nothing like gin, when you feel all done in, and when I'm thirsty for a beer, better bring it to me, dear."_

* * *

Heath felt better once he actually knew how to help the children. But he found there was another reason a baby might cry.

One of the baby girls had been crying, and they'd all done everything they could think of. She'd been fed and burped, changed and kissed to no avail. The tiny red face emitted scream after scream.

But when Mr. Smith came in and took the infant in his arms, she had quieted immediately and smiled at her father, totally content.

Heath knew exactly how she felt.


End file.
